


Angel on the Square

by CoffeeMilkAndTea



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 60's spy AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Aro/Pansexual Napoleon Solo, F/M, Gaby fled Germany as a child, Gaby is a 4th Dan in Judo, Gaby is calmer and less anxious after pursuing a career in martial arts, Illya is a pretty proficient barista, Illya is also a bit calmer after not entering the KGB and being a barista, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Napoleon is a Little Shit, Romantic Fluff, Russia, Slow Romance, Sort of??? They like each other but it moves slowly, i don't know how to use tags, or Gaby managing to hide she's German, or the success of a coffeeshop of all things, slight AU from the 60's, will feature various implausabilities like Napoleon living in Russia to begin with, with grim themes, yup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMilkAndTea/pseuds/CoffeeMilkAndTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Illya is a barista in Leningrad in the '60's, Gaby is the beautiful and stoic Judo martial artist, and Napoleon is Illya's long-suffering coffee-making colleague. </p>
<p>But the world is changing, and some things in the past don't stay there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

**Two Years Ago:**

"Yeah!" A fierce cry rips itself out of the woman's throat, and she throws her 300 pound opponent to the mat. She wraps her legs around him in a headlock and squeezes. For a long minute, they struggle.

And just when she is beginning to despair, he punches his fist on the mat, one, two, three times.

He has conceded defeat.

There is dead silence for a solid minute, before the world erupts around her in a cacophony of sound. A sea of weather-beaten faces are all shouting at her, red with emotion. Money begins exchanging hands. The referee hauls her off the mat by her wrist, holding her hand in the air.

"The winner of the national championship, Gabrielle Teller!"

•

**Two Years Later:**

"A red eye." She says shortly to the tall, handsome American manning the counter. He looks like the sort that could get you into a lot of trouble, she thinks.

"Just one moment." He nods at her, tilts his head back to peer at something that she cannot see. "One red eye!" He bellows, and there is an affirmative grunt somewhere in the back. Someone was behind all of these machines, then she thinks slightly sardonically. Honestly, what a cluttered little shop, full of little coffee making trinkets. But she hears that they were good, so she is willing to pay.

"That will be 342 rubles and 20 kopecks, please." The cashier rattles open, and she stuffs 500 rubles in his hand. "Keep the change," she mutters.

He blinks at his hand, then smiles. "You're very kind. Feel free to have a seat."

•

Illya wipes his hands on his dirty apron. It's not a tough life, being a barista, but he does despair of ever stopping smelling of roasted coffee beans. He grabs the small glass. "One red eye," he calls and sets it on the counter.

"Thank you." He looks up at the owner of the voice and thinks that he knows for the first time what it means to fall in love at first sight.

There is a very long moment as he looks at her. Later he recalls smaller things, like the soft wool of her white dress and the length of her earrings, but it is the look in her wide, dark eyes that enchants him. Why, he cannot say- some things are too personal, somehow to explain. Only, that there seemed to be a dark fire in them, burning.

The moment is broken, unfortunately when Napoleon calls out the next customer's order. Still looking at her as if he has never seen anything like her before, he quickly spills a gruff: "You're welcome," before disappearing into the back once more.

•

Gaby's not quite sure why, but she returns to the coffeeshop.

And she brings a book to read.

•

"Is the coffee good?" The voice comes from above her, gravely.

Blinking, she emerges from the depths of her novel to look above her at the giant who seems to have emerged from the back, at long last.

"Very," she admits. "Are you busy?"

He smiles a little, and ducks his head. There's something boyish about it that warms her. "Not right now," he says, and before she knows it, she's smiling back. "Do you want to sit with me?" She asks, and he replies, "I would like to, very much."

So he does.

•

They talk, but it's not very long before the American is closing the front doors. "We're closing now, Illya." He calls, and Illya himself closes his eyes in frustration. They'd been only talking for... Fifteen minutes. Long, but not long enough.

"Will I see you again?" He asks.

She nods.


	2. CHAPTER ONE: Angel on the Square

**CHAPTER ONE: THE ANGEL IN THE SQUARE**

The next time they meet, however is not in the coffeeshop.

Illya is walking home, trudging through the snow in the Palace Square. Winter had come early to Mother Russia, her shops closing earlier and earlier, eager to guard against the cold and close up for the long nights. There is very little light.  
Still, he can see a little figure huddled on the ground, leaning against the Alexander Column ahead.

He still hasn't seen the woman from the shop- and it's been a week.

His heart has begun to grow heavy. His heart was sure, but was hers?

Lost in his thoughts, he trudged ever closer to the dark figure.

Was it too random? Was he a fool for believing that she'd come back, like she promised? 

Distracted, he almost runs into the huddled figure in the snow, startling him enough that he looks down.

To his horror, it is the girl from the shop lying on the snow before him. Her coat is dark with blood.

•

 _She feels very light in my arms,_ he wonders as he trudges through the snow, carefully carrying the woman. An ambulance was too expensive for most, and he had some experience with wounded friends-mostly with bar fights that got out of hand.

And the snow blew harder and harder, howling through the night.

What happened to her? He no longer wondered why she hadn't come in sooner, his mind reeling from the horror of finding her there. But he had to hurry, or they were both lost.

He had wrapped her in some of his coats, afraid that she would die before he could even get to the hospital.

•

Gaby awoke, with a start to white curtains and a giant Russian barista sleeping on the bedside table.

She felt stiff and sore, but alive.

"What happened?" She whispered to the ceiling.

For a while, that was all she could do- breath and appreciate she was alive. She thought she would meet her end there, underneath the watchful gaze of the angel in the square.

There was a real angel watching her that night, though. Her gaze drifted to the sleeping man next to her. Was it him who rescued her? It must of been-no one else she knew was close by, and she had no idea how else he would know she was here.

It had been a week of terror for her, after she had left the coffee shop. She had received a message that her birth mother had been murdered in the mail from her Uncle still in Germany the very next day, and not a few hours later she was attacked in the streets by two big men.

She managed to fight them off long enough, eventually even winning by using one of their suitcases to knock them out, but when a bullet whizzed by her ear, she fled to the nearest crowd, praying that they would not dare shoot her in the crowd of tourists.

She might be a 4th Dan in Judo, but she was still 23 and frightened after receiving news that her mother was killed.

She got home safely enough, and trying to gather her nerves, she went to go tell the landlady that there were two rather grubby older cousins after her for her money from her national tournament, and really could you please tell them that she was visiting her dear aunt in Austria?

She hid in her apartment after that, barricading the door with the bed- the only thing that could give her enough notice before she might have to fight for her life again. She slept in the couch by the door, always a gun in her hand.

She lived like this for many days, always staying away from windows. Most days, she got to the kitchen by crawling on her stomach.

But eventually, she ran out of food, despite her best efforts. Times were hard for everyone, and even though they were rather better for her for the most part, she still had not that much food to begin with.

She had to come to grips with the rather grim truth that she was either going to starve or she was going to die in the streets, if they cared enough to try a second time.

•

They had come back for a second time. This time she was prepared though, and she swung her handbag, weighed with an iron and some heavy books she no longer cared about into the attacker's face. He went down like a tree, but the other two men wrested it from her and simply grappled with her.

She was doing quite well, she thought all things considering when a particularly hard blow struck her head and a sharp pain ripped apart her stomach.

•

Gaby didn't even realize that her face was wet with tears. Angrily, she wiped them away to the best of her ability and felt for her stomach. It was covered in bandages.

So they had done something to her stomach after all. But she was alive, so that was a point to her.

She watched the sun rise over the buildings through the window across from her and prayed her thanks to God.

•

When Illya awoke, he saw beautiful dark eyes staring into his own.

"You're awake," he mumbled, then blinking sleep away, he tried to sit up. "I did not realize."

"Do I have you to thank for rescuing me?" She asked, staring at him steadily. He nodded, spreading his palms over his knees. "Yes."

"Thank you," She states, with such intense gratitude it almost makes him shift in embarrassment. He had been wondering what happened to her, been thinking that she broke her promise just because she could, and she almost died. It fills him with shame.

He nods shortly, too embarrassed to trust himself to say much. His face feels hot.

After a long silence, he asks, "What happened to you?"

She shivers a little, old faces floating into her mind. Was she going to report it to the police, maybe? But it was dangerous times all around- Especially if the men that hurt her were government spies. For all she knew, they could of been. The ones she had encountered- their moves were good. If she wasn't a Judo champion, she'd probably be dead. Judo... One of the men's faces flashed into viewpoint. She knew one of the men. "I knew the one of the men." she mutters aloud, almost unconsciously. Dimly, she remembers his flushed face across the mat, red with humiliation and full of resignation. He didn't look like a killer, then.

His gaze sharpened. Was it an old lover, perhaps? His heartbeat thunders steadily at the thought, and he is slowly filled with rage. He has known rages like this before- he has not left much standing after. His fingers start to tap.

She looks over to him and smiles a little at the fury that he shows. On many levels- right now, especially, seeing such an expression both frightens her and comforts her. It reminds her of the men, but given that he rescued her, she's hoping that it's for her and not against her that he's furious.

"He was a man I defeated in the national championship," she clarified, hoping to distract him. When he meets her eyes, it looks like some of the fury has eased, replaced by curiosity. "The National Championship?" He queries.

"The National Judo Tournament held in Moscow."

He sits back, clearly surprised. "You can do Judo?"

This earns him such a evil glare that it makes him scoot backwards in his chair. A little. He drops his gaze. "Sorry." He apologizes, then looks back at her. "I was surprised. I do Judo, as well." It's her turn to look surprised, and she nods once, slowly. "You were in the National Tournament? You must be very good, then."

"I am." She doesn't see a point in hiding it. She's certainly not ashamed of her 4th Dan status. She worked hard to get it. "I won the year's championship."

His eyebrows raise. She's all ready to rip into him for misjudging her on the grounds of being a woman when he merely asks; "What year?"

she looks towards the ceiling. "1961," she mutters.

When she looks again at him, she sees that he's smiling. His hands are splayed across his lips, a little thoughtful looking. "I see." There is such a long pause that she almost breaks it to prevent it being awkward. "I am Illya Kuryakin of the 1960 championship."

She stares at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my best efforts, this is turning into a John Le Carre spy novel. I give up. Really, what am I doing. Coffee wasn't even popular in Russia until recently! haha
> 
> Quick few points I would like to clarify before we go on:  
> • Tea might be the non-alcoholic beverage of choice in Russia, but to the residents of Leningrad, coffee is a strange novelty of sorts and is treated as such. The Coffee Shop has not gone bankrupt yet, surprisingly.  
> • Origin stories are more or less the same.  
> • This is not the traditional slow build romance. This is a slow build COURTSHIP.  
> (Actually, this is probably more in the style of the movie. I think they more or less recognized that they were attracted fairly early on in their acquaintance.) my apologies to Napollya fans. 
> 
> Please leave me feedback! It would be greatly appreciated.


	3. ANGEL ON THE SQUARE pt 2

_"Really?"_ She's unable to help herself. There's a little smile on his face, sweet like daisies. It's not smug at all- just like a schoolboy laughing at an innocent joke. A little warmth curls around her insides.

He was a terrifying champion, she remembered, hearing rumors floating around about the year's last winner. Big as a house, and a child prodigy to boot. No one stood a chance, and they all understood that, though they tried like the devil.

She, on the other hand, clawed her way to the top out of sheer stubbornness and skill, and pretty much no one wanted to accept that. She wanted to laugh.

"Your predecessor," he states placidly, like it's no big deal.

She turns a little away from him.

"I watched your match, you know," he comments thoughtfully. "You're very skilled. Congratulations."

She nods shortly, feeling embarrassed. It was a personal win for her that day as well. But the vision of the man red from humiliation flashed in her mind. A thought came to her, that perhaps she ought to feel ashamed that her opponents had gotten the best of her.

She shrunk into her bedsheets a little. (She is a proud person, good at what she did, and hard-accepting of things beyond her control. This is one of those things, unfortunately.)

So they sit in silence, the two of them- one feeling the stirrings of shame and the other not knowing quite what to say. Suddenly, as if an act from god, Illya says then:

"If they are who you said that they are, then they are cowards." He states, startling her. "You are a formidable opponent in the ring, and it is not your fault."

When she looks again at him, there is a dark fire in his eyes. It is not the red fury of before- she doesn't quite know what to feel. It makes her feel uncomfortable.

But she smiles, and he smiles back at her.

It doesn't cure her from dwelling on it, but it helps.

•

Illya begins visiting the hospital as often as he can. He brings little bundled arrangements of pine, sometimes. They fill her whole room with the scent and it makes her smile. The first time he saw her smiling to herself after he brought in a stick, he made it a point to try bring it whenever he could.

"You like it?" He asks her one day. One of his feet is shuffling a little on the floor, like he's anxious and it makes her smile. "Yes. Where do you get it?" His answer was pursed lips, a little twinkle in his eyes and a small shake of the head. She lets it go.

He even drags in his colleague one day, the American. It was a fine day for Russian winter, with the sun lighting up the snow so that it glowed on the roofs. The American introduced himself as "Napoleon Solo," and despite her initial impression that he was likely to be a bit of a troublemaker, they hit it off relatively well. "You're the one with the red eye, aren't you," he had said, surprising her by remembering. "How?" She queries, and Napoleon shakes his head. There's something very arrogant about him, she thinks. Not enough to be a problem, but enough to irritate her. But he is very charming, and it helps. "You're the only woman who has ordered that. Newcomers will ask for tea immediately, or liquor before ordering coffee. But not you."

A little nonplussed, she says "I don't mix my coffee with my liquor." and immediately regrets it. It's not what he meant, and she knows it. Tea is the drink of choice in Russia, and following it, vodka. It is Germany, not Russia that has a long history of being coffee consumers.

"Ah, then it is my mission to convert you. For instance, Caffe Corretto is a wonderful little drink." There is a little mischievous gleam in his eye, which is not broken by Illya taking the time to kick his colleague's foot. "Illya here doesn't drink," he gestures up at him, apparently unbothered by the intense glare he is being sent. "I drink," Illya mutters, jaw set. "Just not often." "Illya has control issues," Napoleon continues, as if his Russian friend hasn't said a thing this entire time. "He doesn't do things like give control to... inanimate objects."

Illya's cheeks are turning red, Gaby watches with some fascination. He looks angry.

Unaware of being an object of speculation, Illya huffs out a sigh. "Cowboy..." He warns, and surprisingly, Napoloen does stop. He smiles charmingly at her. "I'm sure you already knew all this, however." She didn't, and he knows it. He winks at her. She's more fascinated that he would poke the stick at the figurative bear in such a fashion. Who knew that you could find such friends in Russia? On the other hand...

They end up playing cards with an old, battered deck that Napoleon has brought with him. It's fun. Illya is surprisingly awful at it, but Napoleon assures her that if he really put his mind to it, he'd be fairly decent. Gaby feels generous, however and shoves half of her winnings in Illya's coat pocket before he departs. His expression is priceless. (They were little marzipan chocolates that Napoleon had brought specially for the occasion.)

and after, even Napoleon visits a few times, by himself. Without Illya around, however they quickly turn into serious affairs. He asks her the same thing- why would the men attack her? She is reluctant to say anything about her mother's passing, however and only says that she knew one of the men, which leads to her telling him about her judo championship title. His only reply is a raised eyebrow and a low whistle. "So, the same as Illya. The following year, even. You must be good." And when she nods shortly, he smiles. It even looks real.

But it's the visits from Illya that brighten up her day. She barely knows this man, but despite herself, she likes him. It's hard not to. They talk a fair amount- about many things. How he became a barista (the owner was an old childhood friend of his mother's) how they became students of judo (they shared similar motivations) and many, many other things. Sometimes, they'll simply read in silence, quite happy to be in each other's company.

Then came the day where the hospital releases her.

"She needs to stay with a friend," the orderly tells both of them, baldly. "The doctors have recommended that she have someone around to take her back, should her condition take a turn for the worse." Illya's brow is furrowed, she sees. "But why are you releasing her if she is not well?" He asks, and she sighs. "It's because of the elderly coming in, isn't it?" She swings her feet off of the bed, and attempts to hold a brave face. Inside, she is fearful of leaving- going back to her apartment, feeling vulnerable once more to attack is not a prospect that she enjoys.

The orderly nods. It is a well known fact that the hospitals fills up to the brim in the winter with the elderly and the otherwise dying. The fact that she is healing well enough alone makes them release her. She will be alright, given that she takes proper precautions.

"I will take care of you." Illya vouches then, and his tone brooks no argument, even if she wanted to make one.

•

He dresses her in a thick coat that he has brought from his own apartment. It hangs off like a tent on her, which he apologizes for. "I am sorry. This was the smallest," he says, but she waves it off. "It's fine." It is big, and warm- usually much better quality than what she can afford.

He slips a hand between them and holds hers. Ordinarily, she'd protest, but she likes him well enough.

They trudge out into the snow together and brave the temperatures of a Russian winter.

•

When they arrive at her condo building, though: her landlady, who spots them when they come in through the door went quite white, dropped her knitting and profusely apologized to Gaby. "I'm sorry, but you know those young two hooligans you mentioned- they went into your apartment a few days after you left. I tried stopping them- but it didn't seem to help."

Gaby's blood turns to ice.

She lets go of his hand and without a word, she turns to trying to climb the flights of stairs. She doesn't have any information they could possibly want- she had been careful, but it was her other belongings that she was worried about. And her money.

God. What if they had taken it? Anxiety clawed at her insides, making her feel sick.

"Be careful." Illya is there, holding her as she climbs the stairs, like she could break. It made her angry. More so that she was, in fact, broken- physically.

She breathes out. "I need to have a look at my belongings." It was no time for feeling angry over petty things. Her worst fears have been realized- almost. I can no longer stay here, she thinks. If they figured out that she simply didn't die that night, they would probably try again, but not before wringing the information of her father out of her that they couldn't find in her flat.

"Stay with me." Illya's voice comes from above, strong and determined. "I have a flat, and I can protect you."

She wants to say something like "Put the brakes on, my Russian friend." She's only known him for a month's worth of hospital visits and a initial meeting in his coffee shop. But though she'd rather die than admit it, she's frightened. And she rather feels like she doesn't quite know what to do.

So she nods, once.

•

She opens the door with shaking hands, and the old thing swings open with a mighty creak.

Her apartment is destroyed.

The dressers lie on the floor, drawers carelessly thrown about. The mattress has been ripped open: one long gouge with stuffing pouring out. Everywhere she looks she sees devastation.

Somehow it's worse to look at it. She remembers crawling on her stomach, daring to try get some food. What if she was here instead when they came? She would of never been rescued.

"Help me look," she manages to whisper to Illya, who nods briskly.

•

Her money is mostly untouched, which relieved her. When she looked in her hiding spot, someone had tried to get in, but failed.

She stares down at the little pot of water she is currently attempting to coax into a boil so that she can serve some tea. There is already a few bubbles, so she is hopeful.

Illya is sitting in the room in back of her on the ruined bed.

It is silent and cold in her flat, she thinks. How strange. Maybe one of the men left one of the windows open, or her landlady had turned off the heat, since she was gone for so long.

How fast life can change.

She remembers first moving in shortly after her tournament. It was a good few weeks- she was young and full of victory, and even her old landlady had given her a big hug when she had gotten home. How delighted she was when Gaby had told her that she had won.

The old dojo owner had made the both of them Napoleon and hot black tea in her tea set to celebrate, with the flaky layers of the Napoleon melting in her mouth and the tea hot and strong between her lips. It was a good night, and that night, for the first time in a long time, Gaby had felt what it meant to have a mother.

Of course, her husband had told her, rather apologetically in the morning that since he could no longer call her his student and that he could teach her little else, she had to move. She took it with good grace; she had been expecting such a thing for a long time. But she was invited back whenever she wanted for a visit, which surprised her. She had yet to go back.

She could hardly go back now, though. Not with all of this hanging around her head.

It seemed that despite her fleeing from her past, it would always haunt her in some form.

The water was boiling, she realized. Scrambling, she pulled out the loose leaves and what cups she had.

When she approached Illya again, he silently tapped the spot beside him in indication she should sit. When she does, she hands him his beverage, and for a while, they drink in silence.

"Cowboy lives with me."

"Excuse me?" She turns around, surprised. His expression is awkward and something like sheepish, if you can call it that. "Cowboy lives with me. I would not be the only one looking after your safety."

"So... I'd be living with two men?" She raises an eyebrow. Illya looks increasingly embarrassed. "That is not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"What I meant was," and he gives her a look that lets her know that he knew she was yanking on his chain, even though she was mostly serious "I would not be the only one taking care of you. I trust him with my life."

She sighs. "So you're trusting him with mine?" She says skeptically.

"Yes."

•

What he means is, she realizes is that Napoleon is a chaperone.

In addition to being what Illya says he is.

"Isn't this a little soon, Illya?" He asks them with a raised eyebrow, standing in the doorway. Gaby's arms are growing heavy with the boxes.

Illya glares at him from on top of his.

Napoleon moves away from the doorway and begins walking into the living room in faux-obedience. Illya marches in shortly after. "I mean, not that I've ever seen you like this, but you know." Napoleon tosses over his shoulder, to which Illya growls out: "Shut up, Cowboy."

Gaby merely pretends not to hear, and says only: "Where am I putting my boxes?"

"In my rooms," Illya calls out from the hallway, slightly muffled.

It occurs to her that perhaps staying with Illya in his rooms, specifically is not a good idea. "I'm sure it'll get crowded!" She calls out.

"You are not staying in Cowboy's rooms," he returns, and Napoleon is there, ushering her gently. When she glares at him, he winks. "I'd do as he says," he whispers. "I often have company over- not very pleasant for you, and not for me."

Ah. "And he doesn't?"

Napoleon looks insulted on behalf of his friend for a moment before he sees the glint of insecurity in her eyes. He takes pity on her and shakes his head. "No. Illya is a romantic." He shoos her forward, and this time, she obeys.

A romantic, then.


	4. ANGEL ON THE SQUARE pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity.

In the darkness of that night, she finds that inescapable fact: that he is very, very big next to her.

It feels strange. She has never shared a bed with another man she hasn't slept with, rare as the occasions were. And he sleeps nearly silently, with little soft snuffles.

The room is very small compared to her old one, she finds; mostly because the bed itself takes up so much space. She sees that Illya keeps small trinkets here and there. Some on his dresser, others on his small bookshelf. There is a little cup that says that it's from the Ukraine on a shelf.

For some reason, she can't stop herself trembling. He is very, very close, so much closer than he was in the hospital. 

And then he rolls over, exuding a gentle pressure on her side.

She exhales. This was going to be a long night.

•

"You don't look well rested," Napoleon observes when he sees her the next morning. Ah, there is that insufferable tone of voice again, she thinks to herself. Just when she thought she was getting used to it.  
When Gaby tries to glare at him, it comes out more like a bleary squint. He chuckles at the sight; she stumps over to the stove to pour herself tea.

When she sits at the kitchen table, he slides her the newspaper like a peace offering. She accepts it with ill grace, but feeling slightly more charitable for it, slides him the sugar in turn. They drink in companionable silence for a bit, the sounds of a running shower serving as a comfortable backdrop.

"I've been wondering about you," he began, to which she merely grunts into her cup. It could of been anything from a well-mannered "Oh really?" to a death threat, really.

"You hide it very well, but you're not from Russia, are you." 

She nearly drops her cup. The hot tea sloshes over her hands and it burns, but she manages to cling on.

"Your accent is good, but you're imitating someone else's. You've deliberately shed your old one, haven't you?" Napoleon continues, deliberately casual; not quite looking at her.

A pin could of dropped in the silence between them. She sets down the cup a bit more roughly than she needs to and peers at him.

"I could say the same to you, Американская*." 

He tips his cup to her with a smile and gives her a napkin. She ignores it, feeling still rather shaken.

What an odd trio they must make, she thinks. A American, A German, and A Russian who walked into a cafe sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

And then, Illya walks in with nothing but a towel. 

•

"I didn't think you needed to do that much to get her attention, Tovarich." Napoleon later comments idly, swinging his umbrella, snow crunching underneath his feet. (The two of them had left Gaby at the apartment, Illya telling her that it would be better recover at home than brave the weather. In Napoleon's humble opinion, Gaby seemed to be too overcome to have many opinions about the arrangement, much less agree to it.)

"Shut up." Ilya could feel his face and ears burning, despite himself. He attempts to hide it underneath his woolen scarf, gives up, and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

"You know, I know that you haven't had much luck with women...but you know that she isn't another male roommate, right?" Napoleon jabs again, rather gleefully. Cowboy, Ilya thinks with bitterness, is awful at looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 

Determined to ignore Napoleon's relentless teasing, he stared determinedly ahead of him. It was a grey day in the square, miserable and cold. The snow that had fallen the night before had turned into dirty slush that got into your toes and socks. 

Eventually, his mind wanders back to seeing Gaby looking poleaxed at the breakfast table.

It wouldn't win the award for the most embarrassing moment of his life, but it came close. He had forgotten... not that she was there, but to be careful in certain aspects of living, he supposed. 

His insides twist with embarrassment, but then he remembers her red cheeks, and guiltily thinks of how adorable it looked.

Napoleon, watching his friend stomp ahead of him in the snow smiled.

There was something humorous about seeing the young woman go from a grouchy, wary excuse of human being to actually embarrassed to seeing Illya half naked. He might like her, after all; if she didn't get them killed first.

•  
In the mid afternoon, it's Napoleon who sees Gaby first. He represses a smile at the sight of her and her uncomfortable, determined little face, half hidden behind other customers. He's switched jobs with Illya, a fairly rare occurrence during rush hour. 

When Illya looks up from the cashier's register and sees her (finally) he sputters out a "What are you doing here?" At the same time she orders "One red eye, please."

He visibly steadies himself, leaning on the counter. Napoleon watches with interest. "You are not supposed to be here." 

She sighs and opens her wallet. "What do you mean I'm not supposed to be here? I'm buying coffee."

"You are supposed to be recovering." 

"I'm recovering here." She replies with a faint smile, then presses 342 rubles and 20 kopecks in his hand. Napoleon changes his mind. He definitely likes her.

Illya shakes his head, dissatisfied and calls to Napoleon to make a shot of red eye. 

•

When Napoleon sets the drink in front of her, he gazes at her for a moment.

"So, had enough of the flat?"  
She hums, and makes to take her drink from the counter. He puts his hand on the rim to prevent her from taking the cup. "Not so fast, Miss Teller. Why?"

When he sees a mullish expression forming, he backtracks a bit. "I'm not telling you what to do," he adds, a bit more kindly. "I'm just curious."

"I was bored." She says airily, but a twitch in her face that says fear. Napoleon is about to remark upon this, but she continues: "Besides, if they were to come back to the apartment, you might have police at your door." 

Американская, Napoleon thinks. He's avoided run ins with the law so far, and he intends to keep it that way. After all, there is a warrant out for him. Not that Illya or Gaby knew about it, though. Still. 

"I'm touched," he aknowledges. He might be a special case, but no one in Russia particularly wishes to have the police breathing down their backs in such a manner, with such interesting attacks, too. Gaby was lucky as it was that Illya had found her and not someone else- he'd hate to see that either Illya or her being taken away by the government.

She nods. And unexpectedly, she adds: "If they hurt either of you, they may not live to tell the tale." Oh boy. 

•

"Our new housemate might kill men to protect us," Napoleon tells Illya later, in between milk runs and espresso shots.

Illya's is priceless, eliciting a chuckle from Napoleon. 

Two people with good hearts and incredible loyalty, seemed like. Napoleon knows there are worse matches.

•  
It's later in the day, with the heater cranked up as much as it is able to make up for the blizzard outside. It helps, but not much. 

"You seem" A newspaper is thrown onto the table in front of her "To have made yourself comfortable." Napoleon declares as he sits across her, and salutes in her general direction with a water-glass that appeared to be filled with something that looked suspiciously like liquor.

At around 4, the coffee shop has wound down to a tiny trickle of people, one or two occasionally at every half-hour; it appears to be snowing too hard outside for many customers to come. 

She lowers a dog-eared copy of Eugene Onegin to peer at him. "I thought you didn't sell liquor."

Napoleon sips at his drink, looking vaguely pleased with himself. "We don't." 

She has a sudden vision of Napoleon smuggling flasks of vodka to work underneath his impeccably tailored coat and resists the urge to laugh. Some humor must show on her face, though; Napoleon winks at her. "How are you feeling, Miss Teller?"

She nods. "Well enough. It's very comfortable here." It was. The coffeeshop was larger, in many respects, than the little flat they all lived in; and it seemed that the owner had designed it with the customer's comfort in mind. She had a pleasant little view of the window by her table, with a tiny bookshelf of books that were old and well thumbed through a few feet away. 

"I'm glad to hear it." He cocks his head. "Now, if you could tell our Russian friend to stop staring holes into my head, I would be grateful." 

"What have I done?" She asks, a little defensively. 

"Nothing that you've DONE per say, though if you could tell him why" he sets down his glass and looks at her meaningfully "you left the apartment, that would be good. No," he rustles open the newspaper "I'm just going to sit here with you, and read the newspaper."

She stares at him.

•

"What are you doing here?" Illya finds himself saying for the second time as he watches Gaby duck under the counter. When she straightens, she raises her eyebrows. "Helping you."

"I don't need help." He says, bemused. There weren't many customers at the moment, after all. When she shrugs and begins cleaning, he hears: "I like to keep my hands busy."

"Is that why you did not stay at the apartment?" 

She stilled. "Because I'm scared," she states truthfully, defiantly.

Visions of a devastated apartment had taunted her in the silence of the peaceful apartment. It would be a terrible thing to be enjoying their generosity, only to pay it back with devastation of their own lives-- something she couldn't protect while injured. 

Somewhat selfishly; she came to the cafe. If they wanted her, they would at least have to come again to a public place.

When she looks again at Illya, his eyes are kind and full of warmth. 

"It's going to be okay," he says, softly. She feels his hand coming to rest in her hair. "I'll be close by."

•

Weeks pass. It's a learning process, finding out more about the two men. 

She learns that Napoleon likes his coffee sweet and often spiked with a little liquor, and has a terrible weakness for chocolates- always at least three candies in the cupboard, luxuries as they were. Illya likes chess and draws designs for clothes in a sketchbook that he keeps under the bed. 

And one night, Napoleon brings a lady friend home to his room. She's very enthusiastic about the experience, as Gaby can safely testify from the other side of the wall. So can Illya, judging by the uncomfortable, but mildly resigned look on his face. 

She can actually feel Illya's embarrassed tension next to her, underneath the sheets. (She's gotten used to sleeping next to him, but not by much.)

Five minutes pass. It's still going. Good lord, Gaby thinks to herself. Frankly, if she needs to sleep through that, she needs something strong to get her through it. 

"Do you have liquor?"

"We have vodka." 

•

She comes back from the kitchen, sits down by Illya's feet and places two glasses on the bed, bottle of vodka in hand.

"Drink?" She offers. The noise has graduated to a repeated thumping sound, which does something to muffle the woman's voice at least, but honestly, it's giving her a headache. 

Illya gives her an awkward smile, tinted with embarrassment. "No, thank you." Well. 

She pours herself a glass and scoots back to rest against the wall, and hell with the banging. "So what do you do for fun?" She gestures around, and his smile becomes more real.

•

They're playing chess now, balancing the board on his knees. She's not sure she would of guessed that he would be so good at it, but she's giving him a fair run for his money, she guesses. He's beaten her at every round, though.

But a scream comes through the wall, and she can actually feel her eye twitch. Nothing against either of them, but she's tired, Illya's tired and the walls are too thin for screaming. Patience worn thin, she gets up abruptly. 

"Do we have music here?" And before Illya can say anything, she's opened the door of the room and started walking quietly through the living room. The woman's skirt, a dirty olive green, lies on the floor. She kicks it aside. 

"What're you doing?" Illya's face appears at the doorway, seeming to be concerned and confused in equal measure. She blinks innocently at him. "I'm looking for a record. Do you have a player?"

Illya points to a little, cluttered corner. There is a battered looking record player, with two equally battered looking records beside it. 

•

Illya watches bemusedly as Gaby dances along to the music, the voice of Solomon Burke wheezing out of the player. She dances like an American, he thinks. 

She raises her eyebrows at him and he tries not to notice how beautiful she is, even in oversized pajamas and dim lighting. "No fun dancing by yourself, I need a partner."  
The noise coming out of Napoleon's room has stopped, he thinks. He steps forward to tell her this, but then she takes his hands. Oh. 

The mood changes. She's very close to him now, and yet, not enough. Blood rushing through his ears, he watches numbly as he makes his hands dance along to the music. Despite himself, he feels a smile creeping along his face.


End file.
